


Hiding In Plain Sight

by LananiA3O



Series: Batfam Week - Arkham-verse [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Cosplay, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Plushies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking, Swearing, Tattoos, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: It started with a borderline insane attempt to get Superman’s signature and became a chance to bond with his siblings. He doesn’t care how silly and insane the idea might seem. Dick will totally go to a comic convention in full costume, if that means he gets to spend time with his brothers and sister.





	Hiding In Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lysical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysical/gifts).



> This story includes time skips and explores events both before and after the Arkham series. It is told from Dick Grayson’s POV. Please mind the trigger warnings. Enjoy!  
> Gifted to Lysical. You said Dick being a good brother gives you life. Think of it as making up for the life Retrograde, and Batfam Week management has consumed from you, Lys :P  
> Also, you know, as a big thanks for reviewing and recommending my stuff :)

It all began in June 2007, with two bowls of cheap cereal, a bottle of cheap beer nicked from Gordon’s supply, and an even cheaper movie.

Patrol had been as boring as patrol ever got and so Bruce had sent Dick home to get some rest before his upcoming finals in school. He had argued that a quick detour to Babs’ place wouldn’t hurt, since they were in the same grade, studying for the same tests. Bruce had agreed, either oblivious to his real intentions or just too pre-occupied to care. Back then, Dick had enjoyed the fresh whiff of rebellion, the tingling thrill of the forbidden. In hindsight, it seemed almost adorably silly.

They were halfway through the movie when the ad started playing at double volume. “Have you always wanted to be a superhero?” The announcer’s voice was bursting with embellished excitement. “Then join us, at Gotham ComicCon 2007, where you will experience the best of the best, the crème de la crème of superhero comics, movies and videogames! Come taste the thrill of excitement in the air as we unveil exclusive previews for the upcoming adventures of your favorite heroes: Batman! Superman! Wonder Woman! The Flash! Green Lantern! And many more! And, as a special bonus, winners of this year’s exclusive GCC Costume Contest will receive a chance to meet him up close and get his signature! The one! The only! Superman!”

“Oh my God, Barb!” Dick nearly choked on his cereal, but instead settled for somersaulting off the couch in excitement. “Oh my God, Barb, we have to win that contest!”

“Why?” Barb wrinkled her eyebrows at him as she picked up the stray fruit loops strewn across her couch and dabbed at the spilled milk with a paper towel. “It’s just a signature.”

Dick’s jaw dropped. He felt… betrayed. Heartbroken. Utterly annihilated. “It’s SUPERMAN, Babs! The Man of Steel! Freaking Superman!” The eye roll she gave him in return hardly even registered. “Come on, Babs! It’s not the first time you dressed up as a superhero. I can do it, too. Maybe you can help me with my costume? Or Alfred could!” Dick added quickly at the sign of her ever deepening scowl. Clearly Barb was not convinced yet. The sigh she let out as she finished cleaning up the couch sealed the deal.

“Look, Dick, I know you like—love Superman, but there will be hundreds, possibly thousands of people waiting to see him, trying to get first place in this contest. There is no way I am going to walk in there in that ridiculous, embarrassing excuse of a bat-themed costume that I cobbled together with some leather, string, and scissors, and I would eat my hat if _you_ were to win anything in a costume like that.”

Dick grinned back at her. “Ok. Then how about we don’t make _fake_ costumes?”

It took just a second for Barbara to understand what he meant. A second in which her face went from dampened, sympathetic annoyance to sheer, unveiled horror.

“NO! Dick, no! Don’t even think about it!”

“Bruce’s never gonna have to know! It’ll be Saturday afternoon. You’ll need a full-scale breakout at Blackgate to get him out of bed on a Saturday afternoon. He’ll never know!”

“Dick, I said no—“

“It’ll be awesome, Barb! And we’ll get a signature from Superman!”

“No.” With one last resolute huff, Barb gathered the mess of soiled kitchen towels and went to trade them in for a proper sponge. “And now help me out with getting this couch cleaned up, unless you want to explain to my dad why there are white stains on the couch when you and I already broke up and—“

The cutoff was so sudden, it nearly broke his act, but Dick forced the grin back down into his stomach. He didn’t need a grin now. He needed a pout and puppy dog eyes. And he was _good_ at puppy dog eyes, particularly when he was on his knees in front of Barb, clutching her hands like his life depended on it.

“Please????”

It came out somewhere between a mewl and a whine, the closest sound he could make to a soaked baby kitten. Barb’s eyes closed, but her hands relaxed.

“We are so going to regret this...”

***

Saturday couldn’t have come any slower and each day only intensified the tickling that seemed to wander throughout his entire body.

_I am going to get Superman’s signature. Oh. My. God. I. Am. Going. To. Get. Superman’s. Signature!_

He did his best to hide his excitement from Bruce, of course, although it was hardly necessary. He had learned a lot about Bruce in the year since he had been taken in as Wayne’s ward and one of those things was that Bruce was happy to ignore any and all kind of abnormal tells so long as they did not hint at something that would be an obstacle to the mission or detrimental to Dick’s health. In other words, if Bruce did not need to parent, he did not parent. Normally, Dick found it outright infuriating, but this week?

Thank the Lord and all his angels for Bruce Can’t-Parent-A-Stone-Turtle-To-Save-My-Life Wayne!

And thank them for Alfred, too, who took his explanation of ‘Barb and I are going to ComicCon this weekend’ (minus any mentions of suits and gadgets and contests) as enough information to file his behavior away under ‘normal excited Master Grayson level’. Lying to Bruce was easy. Lying to Batman or Alfred? Not so much.

He kept the suit in his normal, everyday backpack, hidden underneath a bag of crackers, his phone, his wallet, a sweater and his keys. They picked up Barb just before heading to the Convention Center at the edge of the city. A quick goodbye and the promise to be outside the gates at six o’clock sharp later, they were headed for the overflowing ticket booth. If it hadn’t been for Barb’s hand tugging at his shirt, he might have cart-wheeled to the booth in excitement.

“Oh my God, Barb, just look at this!” All around them, cosplayers in costumes of varying degrees of quality were strutting about the place, posing for group shots, glomping random strangers who just so happened to wear a related costume, and quoting lines from their favorite comic books and cartoons. Even at a cursory glance, he could spot eight Batmen, three Robins and a Batgirl. “Oh my God, there are actually people dressing up as us!”

The tackle came so quickly it knocked the wind right out of him. Two seconds later, his back was flat against the wall and Barb’s face was only an inch away from him. To any bystander, the dreamy smile on her face would have given the impression that they were just another doting couple, but Dick could feel the pressure where the edge of her hand dug into his kidney.

“Dick, listen up and listen good, because I will only say this once: we may be here in the real suits, but we are NOT here as Batgirl and Robin, alright? We are NOT Batgirl and Robin. We are two dumb, crazy-dedicated cosplayers who have spent eight months working on these costumes and Batgirl and Robin are our idols and if we ever were to meet them, the universe would explode with all the fan girling and fan boying. Got it?”

“Got it.” He felt deflated, and not just because Barb’s hand was dangerously close to a pressure point that could cause blinding agony. She was right of course. Bruce would gut him if he were to destroy their cover over something like this. “Two dumb cosplayers. Batgirl is awesome.”

It took her another two seconds to finally let go of him. Then, it was as if nothing had happened. They got their tickets, dodged security – surprisingly easily, given that there were about thirty-thousand people crammed into the convention center – and found themselves a nice hidden perch in a closed-off auditorium that was under construction. Suiting up in the field was a breeze and done within two minutes. Best of all, both their costumes had enough pouches to pack their phones, wallets, keys, and snacks. Best costume idea ever. Now came the hard part: the waiting.

 _Screw queues. Screw queues and screw everyone else who wants to see Superman_ , Dick thought as they waited in the registration line. There were only so many cart-wheels, somersaults, back flips and handstands he could do before things got boring. It didn’t help that Barb was eyeing the artists’ alley longingly and a little boy was tipping from one toe onto the other, five feet to Dick’s left, anxiously waiting for the chance to get a picture with Robin. By the time both their names were up, Batgirl all but stabbed her name into the paper and Robin’s handwriting had seemingly regressed by six years. He frowned as the lady at the registration counter crossed out his line and told him to re-do it in _readable_ letters. He signed, dodged sideways quickly and swept the kid up into a one-armed hold, making a ‘peace’ sign with the other while the mom took pictures. By the time he had set the boy down again and turned around, two Batman cosplayers his age had come up to him to ask for group shots. Dick put on his brightest smile and nodded.

He was in for four hours of heaven and hell.

***

By the time the contest finally started – eighty minutes late of course – half the contestants had given up already. _Good._ Dick cracked his knuckles and shook out his arms and legs. The idea that there were now even less people between him and Superman’s autograph only spurred him on further and the three cans of chocolate-flavored Soder Cola he had had by now did not help. Barb scowled at him as his name was called up.

“Go get ‘em, you caffeinated, over-carbonated hamster...”

The lights on the stage were bright, but no comparison to the circus. Especially since he only had sixty seconds. Dick took at deep breath, then vaulted onto the stage with a triple back flip, followed by a set of carefully practiced katas of various martial arts styles. He ended with his trademark quadruple somersault and a quick bow to the audience, each movement flowing into the next so seamlessly he was not surprised at the applause. He exited left, then turned around to watch Batgirl take the stage in sure, completely non-fancy strides. The difference was almost surreal. She scanned the crowd once, then quickly pointed out the two guys who had been trying to pick-pocket an expensive looking Nikon camera from a boy who couldn’t have been older than twelve and was covered in Batman and Robin merchandise from head to toe. In the split second it took for everyone to turn around, Barb reached into her belt, activated the smoke pellet and vaulted off the stage without a sound.

“You cheater!” Dick poked her in the ribs playfully. “You said no gadgets!”

“Smoke pellet’s not a gadget,” Barb argued, “... it’s part of the character.”

The next hour that followed, Dick liked to count as one of the longer ones of his life, as far as non-life-threatening situations went. They ate in near silence at one of the overpriced food shops and watched as the crowds thinned slowly, parents taking their younger kids back home and school classes returning from their day trips. By half past five, the time had finally come.

It was hard to miss, what with the screaming and cooing as Superman _flew_ onto the stage, waving at the crowd and smiling a perfect performer’s smile.

Dick felt his heart drop by half a foot. “Oh my God, Barb, it’s him! It’s really him!”

“Yes, I see him.” Clearly, his excitement did not carry over, but Barbara let him drag her to the line of contestants nonetheless. “Don’t get your cape in a bunch.”

It took the announcers another five minutes to introduce their special guest and thank everyone for their participation, of course, but at last, the moment had come.

“And the winner of this year’s GC3 Costume Contest is....” A dramatic drum roll mingled with the echo of the announcer’s voice and Dick’s lips moved automatically. _Say Dick Grayson, please. Say Dick Grayson, please. Say Dick Grayson, please!_

“Barbara Gordon as Batgirl!”

His heart stopped. To his left, Babs grinned slightly, as she took off his cowl, handed him her orange juice, and walked up the stairs calmly. He took the can by sheer reflex, while his brain decided to fold. Somewhere in the background, the saddest little violin was playing just for him. He couldn’t hear what Barb said to Superman. He couldn’t see what she had him sign. All he could see was Superman shaking her hand, waving goodbye, and flying off to wherever he was headed for next.

He felt betrayed. He felt empty.

“Earth to Robin!” It was the sharp sting of fingernails digging into his trapezius muscle that brought him back to reality. Barb waited until he was looking straight back at her, then pushed the cowl into his clammy hands. “It is five to six and we have what we came for. Let’s get changed and head for the entrance. We should not keep Alfred waiting.”

 _Easy for you to say_ , Dick wanted to lob back at her. She might have had what she had come for, but he had missed his chance with Superman. The thought left him disproportionally sad. He moved to put the cowl back on and nearly toppled over at the sight.

She had had him sign the inside of Robin’s cowl in bright silver marker.

***

In June 2008, he got Wonder Woman’s signature.

In June 2009 he had more important things to worry about. Like walking out on Bruce. Like moving to Blüdhaven. Like signing up at the BPD academy. Like Bruce taking in another teenager to become Robin, as if they were a dime a dozen. Like his new little brother, who quickly proved to be the antithesis of what he had ever imagined a little brother to be like. By the end of the first night with his successor, Dick had crossed so many invisible lines, backtracked so many times, and triggered so many hidden trauma switches that trapeze acts without a safety net suddenly sounded like the safest thing in the world again. His only consolation was that Bruce seemed to have equally under-estimated or misjudged what raising the boy would entail, and as a result, he had found himself equally prone to screwing up.

It was a small and selfish comfort and whatever satisfaction Dick got from it usually went ‘poof’ the moment he remembered who the real victim in all this was.

Jason.

Jason deserved so much better. He didn’t know all the details, but over the few monthly sparring – and carefully, increasingly non-training-related brotherly bonding – sessions they had had by now, one thing had become increasingly clear to Dick: Jason may have seemed tough as nails, but there was an empathic little soul inside that street-hardened body that longed for recognition, appreciation, and warmth from a father who had never really learned how to give any.

“I really should have taught him better...”

“Who?” Jason eyed him suspiciously over his chocolate-and-banana ice cream cone. Jason only ever eyed anything suspiciously. The food. The people waiting in line before and behind them. The green-mamba-themed inverted rollercoaster they were almost on now.

“Bruce,” Dick finally admitted. “I mean, come on, almost a year in the manor and I’m the one who has to take you to a Six Flags?”

Jason licked up the rest of the ice cream, then turned away from him, shoulders tense and very carefully looking at anything but him as he dug into the cone proper. “Yeah, I’m sure you had better things to do with your Sunday off.”

 _Oh God..._ It took Dick everything he had to resist the urge to groan into his palm. _Backtrack. Rewind. Stop. Breathe. Be very, very careful. Hair trigger brother._

“That’s not what I meant,” Dick finally explained, his voice as calm as he could muster. “I enjoy these Sundays with you, Jason. I really do. And I haven’t been to a rollercoaster park in ages, so this is awesome! What I mean is... Bruce seems to have this weird idea in his head that parenting is all food-on-the-table, clothes-on-the-back, bedroom, education, transportation, and that’s it.”

“Last I checked, that’s all GC CPS requires.”

“But that’s not parenting, Jason,” the first hints of frustration were starting to creep into his voice and Dick hated himself for it. “That’s not how you show someone that you love them. And trust me: Bruce loves you, or else he wouldn’t have adopted you, but he is crap at showing it. Was so when I was still living at the manor, too, and I’m just furious that I didn’t even make a dent in his stick-up-his-ass ice king routine.”

Finally, the rollercoaster carts arrived once more and the gates opened in front of them. Jason finished his cone quickly as an attendant showed them to the nearest available cart and a grin stretched over his lips. Front row seats. The attendants had just finished strapping them in and were moving onto the rows in the back when Dick caught him staring off into the distance.

“You know, it wouldn’t even be so bad, if I felt like I was getting anywhere,” Jason said almost casually. Dick swallowed hard, then clapped his teeth shut. Jason didn’t usually open up that much, talk that clearly about what he wanted. This was an opportunity. “I mean, I put in all those hours of practice and it never seems to matter. Not during the day. Not even during the night...”

 _Not even when I’m Robin_. Dick knew the feeling. Anonymity had its price. And for Jason, it was simply becoming too much. He wanted to move over and hug him, but the stupid overhead safety rigs were strapped in tight and locked securely. A for safety compliance. F for convenience.

It was the sound of the starting signal that brought him out of his reverie and two seconds later they were being hurled along the tracks, through loops and screws that sent his pulse racing and his heart fluttering. The ride was short, but fun, and by the time they got off, at least the sad frown had been wiped off Jason’s face. They were almost off the ramp when Dick spotted the poster and froze in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Jason backtracked carefully, clearly following his line of sight. “Spot a ghost or somethin’?”

“Jason...” Dick could feel the smile starting to stretch his lips. “Have you ever been to Gotham ComicCon?”

***

“This is insane!” Jason’s voice was somewhere between a growl and a hiss and if his only alternative hadn’t been being dragged along by his hands like a little girl, he would probably not even have bothered to keep up with Dick. “You are insane! And I can’t believe I let you drag me into this! Bruce is gonna fucking murder both of us!”

“Only if he finds out,” Dick lobbed back at him. “Also, language.” The auditorium was no longer under construction, but it was empty and not in use nonetheless. The scaffolding still lead up to the same little hidden corner and Dick grinned as he climbed up and slipped out of his clothes and into the Nightwing suit. “And this is going to be awesome. Trust me. If you don’t, call Barb.”

“I already did,” Jason replied sourly as he scanned their surroundings for any hidden dangers. “She warned me not to let you near any chocolate Soder Cola.”

The laughter that came from his mouth died as quickly as it had risen. Jason wasn’t laughing. Jason was tense. This was going all wrong. The one person who was definitely supposed to laugh and enjoy and be happy today was scowling, suffering, and miserable. With a deep sigh, Dick leapt down to the ground. He used the half second it took his little brother to turn around to him to draw him into the tightest hug he had ever given anyone.

“It will be fine, Little Wing.” He let go just as quickly again, but kept one hand on his shoulder. Jason hated feeling caged in. And today was not about making him suffer. Today was supposed to be a good day. “You’ll see. Everyone will think you’re just another cosplayer. A really good cosplayer, but still. People will be lining up to get your picture and I can show you all the Robin merch.”

“Robin merch?” Jason raised an eyebrow at that and Dick was ready to eat his own suit if there wasn’t the slightest bit of curiosity in his eyes now.

“Robin merch.” Dick affirmed. “You can’t tell me you’ve never seen any of the stuff. T-shirts, action figures, plushies, stickers, patches, backpacks, cups— oh my god, you’ve gotta see the cups! We have to find that aisle!” The memory was a little foggy, but nothing would ever make him forget the first time he had laid eyes on that one shop near the back of hall segment H4 that sold unique, printed mugs of superheroes, including half a dozen Robin cups. Jason still didn’t look convinced. With a deep sigh, Dick let himself sink into one of the empty chairs. “Look, maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe you really don’t want to be here. I know you don’t like big crowds and you think this idea is crazy. But... can you at least give it a try, please? As a favor? For me?”

This time, there were no puppy dog eyes and no mewling. He didn’t want to trick Jason into his. He didn’t want to trick him ever. Bruce was already occupying the role as resident jerk. He didn’t need to add another.

“Fine.” It was barely more than a whisper, but it was confirmation. Only a second later, Jason was climbing the scaffolding fast and steady as if he had been born in a jungle and disappeared behind the spotlights. A minute later, a flash of red dropped down in front of him and Dick had to bite back a gasp.

Bruce had changed the uniform of course. Even in Dick’s days as Robin, there had been continuing alterations, little design changes meant to incorporate newer, better materials and technology as well as allowing for the evolution of his own personal fighting style. And yet, Jason was still unmistakably Robin. The dark, grayish-green fabric of the shirt and pants was glued to him like a second skin. The vest was darker and slimmer, yet it looked incredibly sturdy and bendable at the same time. The cape was just long enough to fall over his knees and the domino mask sharpened his already angular features into a chiseled mask of scowls and intimidation.

 _He looks like a painted, miniature version of Bruce_ , Dick realized with a pang. On one hand, that was awesome, because Bruce was a force of nature, really. On the other, he looked to be firmly en route to taking over many of his less favorable traits as well.

“So, what are we waiting for, slowpoke? Let’s get this over with.”

With a quick nod, Dick took the lead.

***

They went for the big fish first, the cluster of comic shops in the center of the main hall, where all of the big name companies sold their latest publications and praised and promoted upcoming events. The plan had been to get the worst part – at least from Jason’s point of view, probably – out of the way first.

They had barely made six steps before the first poor fool from a group of horribly cheap Batman cosplayers walked up to them.

“Dude! Your costume’s amazing, man!”

“Damn right it is!” One of his buddies agreed as he hurried to join them. “That’s the coolest Robin cosplay I’ve ever seen! How long have you been working on that, bro?”

“Five months and thirteen days,” Jason answered without so much as flinching and Dick felt a pang of guilt despite of how proud he was of his little brother’s perfect spontaneous act. He had just given them the real, honest-to-God time span it had taken him to get from ‘first proper sparring session’ to ‘the gauntlet’. He was using real time scales, because Dick had forgotten to give him a cover story first. _Shit._ “Nice Batman costume,” Jason added. “You’ve got the branding aspect down to a T.”

 _Because Bruce puts his damn bat symbol on every single damn thing under the sun. Also, read: everything else about your get-up sucks balls._ Dick nearly swallowed his tongue. If they were going to get through this without someone getting punched in the teeth, it would be a miracle. “So let me guess: you guys want a photo, right?”

“Not with you,” one of them flung out in an instant. “What are you supposed to be anyway? Baby Batman without a cape?”

Perhaps it wasn’t going to be Jason who would punch somebody tonight. For once, Dick could actually feel his lips shift in slow motion as he drew them into a bright, disarming, slightly sheepish, fake smile. Jason’s devious grin did not help. Then, he reached into his utility belt and brought out his phone. “I’m the photographer. Start posing. We have an entire convention to go through.”

Somehow, everyone started to shuffle together. Sure there were random people walking into the shot, stall owners scowling behind them and really awful lighting, but he could live with that. He snapped four shots, just to be safe, then quickly switched to a camera handed to him by one of the Batmen and took pictures for them.

Jason’s calm lasted for all of half a second after they disappeared back into the crowd. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re actually enjoying this stuff?”

“What? They admired your costume. They wanted your picture. What’s wrong with that?”

“Do you want the list alphabetically or in order of annoyance?”

“Neither,” Dick said. “But if you want, we can just make a quick bee line—” He eyed the packed mass of partially costumed con-goers in front of him with something similar to mild dread. “—a careful bee line to the publisher that sells all the Batman and Robin comics. Then we can get out of the center of the black hole and go to where it’s a little less crowded. Sound good?”

“Peachy.”

Dick winced. _Great._ He had planned to make Jason feel better. Instead he had merely made him grouchier. Still, no point crying over spilled milk. He pushed forward quickly, making sure to cast quick glances over his shoulders every two seconds to make sure Jason was still there. If Barb could bring a smoke pellet to the stage, he was fully prepared for his little thunderbolt brother to suddenly grapple up into the rafters.

The Batman and Robin comics corner turned out to be a boon and a bane.

On the upside, he finally got the immensely satisfying experience of seeing Jason’s eyes widen in excitement, hands leafing quickly through specially printed, high quality paper pages of a dozen different comics. _Batman. Batman & Robin. Batman & Robin – Elseworlds. Robin – The Boy Wonder. Guardians of Gotham. All-Star Batman. Batgirl and Robin. The Dynamic Duo_. He had known that Jason was an experienced speed reader – he had to be, what with having to catch up on six years of academic progress lost – but seeing him apply it to a stack of comics the size of his arm was nothing short of surreal.

On the downside, they were now in heavy fan boy land, and it took all of three seconds for someone to point out the ‘awesome cosplay’ before a crowd of stunned onlookers suddenly descended on Jason.

_Can I have your picture? What’s the vest made of? Can I have your picture? How do you get that cowl to stick on your face? Can I have your picture? This is the best Robin cosplay ever! Can I have your picture? I feel like a cardboard cutout of Robin next to you! CAN I HAVE YOUR PICTURE?_

He was just about to intervene and drag him out of there when Dick spotted it, and the sight made his stomach freeze. _Crap, crap, crap, crap, fuck!_

“Great costume, kiddo! Can I get your picture?”

It was just an imitation, of course. Just a cosplay. Not the real deal. There was a mad glint in the real eyes, a cackle to the real voice, that could not be mistaken for anything else, and this guy did not have it. But he did have the purple suit. And the flower pin. And the white skin. And the green hair. And the red smile.

Jason had caught sight of him for all of half a second before his right fist shot up, his foot hooked around the poor idiot’s ankle, and his left arm pushed him to the ground hard and quick enough to cause an audible thump, even in the noise of the con’s busiest hall.

“No, you fucking can’t, you fucked up little creep!” Jason was on him in a second. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you know who that is you’re impersonating? How many people he’s fucking killed?”

“Whoa—“ Dick tried to step in, only to be met with a stare that could have cut through concrete.

“Stay the fuck where you are, Dick, or I’ll shove those sticks of yours up your model ass and light ‘em up!” With the warning out of the way, Jason redirected his attention to the Joker knock-off pinned below him. “You. Are. A. Fucking. MORON! And you’d better have some other clothes to change into and some make-up remover for that cheap-ass paint on your face, because if you walk out into Gotham like this and one of _his_ crew sees you, you’ll be going home in little bits and pieces.”

He shoved him hard one last time, then whirled around and disappeared into the crowd fast and silent as a pouncing cat. With a quick sigh and a rattled string of apologies, Dick helped the unfortunate cosplayer back up on his feet and darted after his brother.

Whatever had possessed him to think this was a good idea? He should have known. At the very least, he should have talked to Barb first (who would very likely very promptly have torn him a new one for this utterly insane idea). Now Jason was lost in a crowd so thick, Dick could barely see his own hands in front of his eyes, spooked, pissed off, and probably regretting what little trust he had put in his older brother.

He had to fix this. He just had to.

His slipped out through one of the side entrances, scanning for cameras and other watchful eyes first, before he activated his gauntlet interface and tuned into the tracker frequencies. To his surprise, it gave Robin’s location as just around the corner.

An empty, desolate corner adjacent to the old delivery parking lot that really had seen better days.

“Always look up, Grayson.”

He did and sure enough, there he was, perched on the rooftop of the convention hall, legs dangling over the edge, a cigarette in one hand and what looked like a can of coke in the other. There were a hundred things racing through his head at once.

_Come down there right now._

_What if someone sees you?_

_How did you even get up there?_

_Why the hell are you smoking, Jason?_

_You’ll ruin your lungs._

_Get down from there right this sec—_

_Oh God..._ The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. _I’m starting to sound like Bruce._

“Jason... I’m sorry.” He really was, and he hoped it carried over in his voice. “I am truly sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this way. I didn’t plan for any of this, and that’s entirely my fault. I’m sorry. Could you please come down here so I don’t have to explain to security how a fourteen-year-old kid climbed up a rooftop with a grappling gun?”

Jason seemed to ponder that for a moment, then got up and walked along the edge. To Dick’s sheer horror, he jumped down to a nearby fire-escape, on to a lantern post and down to the pavement. All _without_ a grappling gun. Apparently, the shock was easy to read on his face. Jason stubbed the cigarette out on a trash can, threw it into the bin and pointed at a nearby drain pipe. “I climbed the pipe. Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to bring any of our actual gear to this?”

“No.” Dick shook his head and he could tell from Jason’s stance that he was waiting for the punch line. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Jaybird. I’m sorry I dropped the ball on this.” A pair of Superman cosplayers came stumbling through the door, giving him just enough of an opening to catch a glance at the extensive merchandise gallery. “But I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

“Why would I?” Jason finished his can – chocolate coke – and tossed it the same way the cigarette had gone. “So I can get pressured into more photos?”

“No more pictures,” Dick quickly interjected. “I promise. Anyone who wants to get your pic from now on will have to go through me, and the answer will always be ‘no’. I swear.”

Seconds ticked by like hours. Then, under a huff of exhaled smoke, Jason gritted his teeth. “Fine. Last chance, Goldilocks.”

“Thank you, Jesus!” The quick laugh came automatically, an instinctive release for the pressure that had been building up in his chest. “And thank you, Jason.”

This time, they stuck to the sidelines, just between the food stands – Jason seemed to be physically incapable of passing by any of them without dropping at least a dollar here or there and filling up his utility belt with snacks stacked more meticulously than boxes on container ships – and the various merchandise alleys. Jason frowned at the alignment of overpriced action figures, muttered ‘cheap ass stuff’s gonna break in two months’ at the booth with the key chains, and outright winced at the mere sight of the last lane of artists’ alley where various tattoo artists were busy putting ink into the shoulders and arms of daring clients. Dick didn’t know what was up with that, but decided to steer them clear of the ink factory nonetheless. They did manage to find the aisle with the cups again, but he decided to force his own excitement down to let Jason explore. He eyed the merchandise quickly, then moved on to the other side of the hall, opposite to where they had entered.

The plushy section was gigantic and had everything from life-sized Superman replicas to the most adorable fist-sized bat plushies. Dick counted a total of fourteen different Robin toys, many of which still used the design of Dick’s old suit. He was not surprised to find Jason picking up the one that resembled his current red suit the most.

It was a well-made plushie, about the length of Jason’s forearm, stylized of course, but still recognizable. The red was vibrant, the black dark as night. The yellow and the grayish-green somehow didn’t clash nearly half as badly as they usually seemed to. Most importantly though, it looked soft. So soft that he wasn’t surprised to see Jason run his hands through the fake tuft of raven hair.

“You know part of me feels like this thing shouldn’t even exist and I want to kill it with fire.”

That gave Dick pause. There was definitely something melancholic in the way he had said it, yet also something bitter and hollow. In the end, what were his options?

“Why?”

“Batman, I get,” Jason mumbled over a quick glance at the sheer myriad of Batman toys. “He’s the badass. But Robin... I guess they are just banking on people buying this stuff in bulk. You know, buy the Batman – get his sidekick for free...”

The thought struck Dick like lightning. Sudden. Painful. “You’ve never owned any plushies, have you?” Jason didn’t answer, but that alone was all the answer Dick would ever need. Jason had opinions about everything. If he wasn’t sharing any, that meant he didn’t have any. He wondered if Bruce knew. He wondered if he’d care. “How much is that plushie?”

Jason scowled at him from beneath the domino. “I’m turning fifteen in two months, Dick.”

“Not what I was asking,” Dick lobbed back at him. “You’re never too old for plushies. Hey, I still have my old Zitka plushie from my days in Haly’s!” He grabbed one of the companion Batman plushies from the pile, examined it shortly, and then promptly tossed it back onto the pile with the least bit of care. “Plushies aren’t there to look badass, Jay. They are meant to provide comfort, to make you feel safe and warm and hopeful. Sure Batman’s badass, but he’s just as likely to give the kids nightmares. There’s a reason there are still a dozen of those lame Batman plushies here, but only one of this specific Robin.” Jason seemed to mull that thought over in his head, clearly undecided. It was a leap of faith, but Dick decided to push just a little further. “Seriously, Jay, let me have a look at the price tag, okay? If Bruce thinks it’s silly and childish – which I’m pretty sure he won’t – he’ll just have to deal with it. You deserve some self-indulgence every once in a while.”

Jason was just about to open his mouth when a high-pitched voice sounded to their left.

“Daddy! Daddy! Look! That’s the one I want!” From the other end of the plushie aisle, a tall man in his thirties was approaching them slowly. On his shoulders, an adorable little girl with reddish-brown curls – she couldn’t have been older than six, if Dick wasn’t mistaken – pointed at the plushie in Jason’s hand with the brightest smile on her face. “That’s the Robin plushie I told you about. Can I have it, daddy? Please, please, pretty please?”

The father frowned, clearly already very near the end of his patience for a day out with an energetic little devil. Still, he turned to the store owner warily. “Can I have one of those Robin dolls, please? Like the one that young gentleman is holding.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” The owner’s smile faded instantly. “This specific model has been selling like hot-cakes and that’s the last one. We still have many other Robin and Batman plushies, th—“

“But I don’t want any of the others!” The girl’s face was stuck between pouting and crying as she pounded her tiny fists against her legs. “The Batman plushies are all so dark and grim and the other Robin plushies look lame. I want that one, daddy, please!”

“Sorry, Lisa.” Her father shook his head. “The young gentleman was here first. I’ll buy it another day, okay?”

“Okay...” The little girl was heartbroken. Dick watched them move on slowly while Jason forked over the cash for the plushie. One pair of scissors later, the price tag and anti-theft button were gone and the store owner handed it back to him with a bright smile. Jason turned it over in his hand once, then took a deep breath.

“Excuse me, sir?” It took him only a few strides to close the distance. “If your daughter asks nicely, she can have the plushy.”

The girl’s hazel eyes went wide in sheer bafflement. “Really!?” She glanced back and forth between her father and the stranger quickly. “May I have the plushie, please, sir? If you really don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

Jason handed the doll straight to her and watched her face light up like a Christmas tree, while he politely declined her father’s offer to reach into his pocket for the twenty bucks owed. The girl’s high-pitched squeeing was only amplified by the receivers in Dick’s cowl, but he couldn’t have cared less. She hugged the doll to her chest and smiled wider than a Cheshire cat. “Thank you, sir! Thank you so very, very much!” The smile was gone as quickly as it had come. She held the doll up carefully, flicking her gaze between the Robin in her hands and the Robin in front of her. “You know, sir... You really look a lot like him... May I take a picture with you?”

“Lisa!” The girl’s father went three different shades of red in one second. “He already gave you the doll. For free! Don’t trouble the poor man any more!”

Jason grinned at that. “No trouble at all, sir. Come on, Lisa... let’s take that picture. You, me and the plushie.”

***

He was perched atop one of his favorite Blüdhaven gargoyles, overlooking the Spine from its west end in the business district all the way to the slums in the east, rain hammering down onto his suit relentlessly, when the call came in. Barb’s voice was always a welcome surprise and with the way his week had been going, Dick welcomed the chance to take time out for a minute. He retreated back into the shadows of an overhanging balcony and switched onto the private comms line.

“Hey, BG. What’s up?”

“Me saving you from falling asleep on the job, if your voice is anything to go by.” Of course Barb hadn’t missed the slight edge of weariness underneath his words. Raised by a cop. Trained by the Batman. Married to Robin. Who the hell was he trying to fool?

“I’m fine,” Dick finally managed. “It’s been a long week, but I’m about to bust one of the biggest drug distribution rings in Blüd, so trust me: I’ll be fine. I’ll take it easy next week, I promise.”

“I would hope so,” Barb replied tersely. “You know what’s coming up next weekend, do you?”

“Eh...” In his head, Dick’s planner unfolded slowly. June 25th and June 26th. It wasn’t anybody’s birthday, as far as he could recall. The 26th had once held some relevance to him, given that it was the day Bruce’s parents had been murdered. June 26th had never been a good day in the Wayne family. Not that it mattered now. “Nothing relevant pops into my mind.”

“How about irrelevant?” She let him chew on the question, but when he still hadn’t answered ten seconds in, Barbara sighed deep enough for him to get static in his slightly broken comms unit. He’d have to find some time to fix that. “Jesus fiddling Christ, I can’t believe you! Remember the last time Superman showed up for an autograph op at GC Comic Con, you were so excited you spilled cereal all over my dad’s couch and then had both of us go there in full gear?”

He did remember. Once upon a time the memory would have made him laugh. But now...

“Barb... not for nothing, but I haven’t been to GC3 in six years.”

He _had been_ planning to go to GC Comic Con 2011 with both Jason and Barbara in tow. In full costume of course. He had been planning to head for the plushie aisle and buy the best Robin plushie ever for Jason, and the cutest Batgirl plushie he could find for Barb. Dick had had wonderful plans for June 2011.

And then, May 2011 had happened. Joker had happened.

Jason was gone.

So instead, Dick had spent June 2011 combing through Gotham rock by rock, rooftop by rooftop, searching for any sign of his little brother.

He had spent June 2012 combing through Blüdhaven, rock by rock, rooftop by rooftop. Two months later his hopes had been shattered by the video Joker had sent to Batman via the GCPD. It had left a wound in his heart that had eventually scarred over, but never fully healed.

He had spent June 2013 accompanying Barb to her last physical rehab sessions, trying to ignore and push down the urge to ram fifty-thousand volts directly into the eyeballs of the monster who had taken half his sister and all of his little brother.

He had spent June 2014 saving Blüdhaven from certain annihilation by a whole syndicate of lunatics.

He had spent June 2015 worrying about Bruce and his increasingly disturbing habit of keeping secrets not just from Barb and him, but from Lucius and Alfred as well.

Now, it was June 2016. Bruce was gone. So was Alfred. And even though it had been eight months now, it still hurt. Another hole in his heart. Another scar. If there was any silver lining to be found, it was that Jason had returned to them by some divine miracle, albeit reluctantly, hesitantly, and wielding fully loaded guns with lethal force. Given that it had been more than two weeks since any of them had last heard from Jason, it was a weak silver line, indeed.

“That’s precisely why I want you to come along,” Barbara eventually said. “I know you have a lot on your plate, Dick. I know you worry. About Blüd. About Jason. About Tim and me. About the fallout from Bruce’s unmasking. But I refuse to let that wear us down. We all deserve some time off and some light-hearted fun every once in a while. So? How about it? Does a sibling bonding session trip to the convention, followed by buckets of ice cream sound good to you?”

His first instinct was to say no. The job came first. Blüdhaven needed him. There was so much left to do, even if the drug bust went right today. And even if he ran out of things to do, if, by some miracle, he’d actually have the time to take the day off, what kind of brother would he be – going out with the others while Jason was out there all on his lonesome?

“If you’re worried about Jason, I’ve left him two voice mails, a text, and an email,” Oracle stated as if to prove that she had chosen exactly the right name for herself. “You know he was never a big fan of huge, packed crowds, and he always felt like a fish out of water with all the family bonding. If _he_ feels like he’s up to it, he’ll be there.”

Another thing that Barb was right about, and with every second that passed, every little pattering flick of the rain against the steel and concrete monstrosity around him, the truth was clearer to him. Maybe his first instinct was to put duty first, but it wasn’t what he needed and it wasn’t what he wanted.

“When are we meeting?”

***

The bust had gone through just as planned. The aftermath had not. He had spent the better part of the week trying to save crucial evidence from the corrupt hands of some of his fellow cops, but in the end, too much had been lost. All he had gotten in return were more enemies within the station.

Barb had been right. He deserved and needed some time off. And some ice cream.

Tim was wearing a red shirt with a stylized, red Robin R on its chest. Barb was dressed completely in civvies. To nobody’s surprise, both of them nearly swallowed their own tongues when they saw him.

“Oh. My. God.”

“I think I might be still be asleep, Barb.”

“You’re not, Timmy,” Dick crossed the fake escrima sticks – no electricity, but he’d still be able to do some amazing damage if he wanted to – behind his neck in a picture-perfect modeling pose. “Wouldn’t be GC3 without me in full costume.”

Tim shook his head with a tired smile. “Well, as long as you don’t go on stage to show off your acrobatics again, I guess we just might be able to not get hounded by paparazzi from here to hell.”

Barb’s jaw dropped the same moment he nearly dropped both his sticks. “Oh my god.” She mustered Tim quickly from head to toe, then zoomed in on his face. “Oh. My. God. That really was you back then! The kid with the camera and all the Batman and Robin merch?”

“What can I say...” Tim shrugged his shoulders completely non-chalantly. “I always was a fan boy. So, are we going in there or not?”

“We definitely are.” Dick took point, breeching a path through the masses to the counter. It was Sunday now and all the big events – including the Superman signing session – had been on Saturday, but that didn’t mean the halls were empty. There were still enough people there to make moving in a group a chore, particularly if one of your group was stuck in a wheel chair.

Right between the ticket counter and the turnstiles leading into the actual convention center, the first squee reached his ears.

“OMG, Jess, it’s Nightwing!”

It was a group of four girls that flocked around him within a second, each one more hysterical than the next. He gave Tim a quick what-can-you-do shrug and handed him the tickets before falling back onto his lifetime experience of posing for cameras and making completely irrelevant small-talk with strangers he would probably forget about before the day was over. Just past the turnstiles, a second group – this time Batman and Robin cosplayers – approached him for a group shot.

It felt good, knowing that Nightwing was no longer just this unknown, never-taken-serious rumor among the criminal populace of Blüdhaven, and yet, by the fourth time someone had asked him for his picture, he finally realized why Jason had been so frustrated with the entire experience six years ago.

He wasn’t here for random fan girls and fan boys. He hadn’t come to this convention to have his picture taken a thousand times, even if he did enjoy the attention and loved putting a smile on the faces of people who looked up to him and his family. He hadn’t come here to model the suit either, even though it did look damn good on him.

He had come here to spend time with Barb and Tim, just like Jason had come here with him all these years ago, to spend time with his brother.

“Sorry, ladies.” The girls looked crushed, but Dick kept on moving. Just because Barb was in a wheel chair did not mean she couldn’t keep up with the rest of them and the pace she set for getting through the halls meant that he had a simple choice: stay with his family or stay with his fans. It was a no-brainer.

Ironically, they started out in the very same place as he had done with Jason all those years ago: the main booth for fresh bat-related comic material. He had only ever skimmed them at best, but it was clear from the depth of the discussion between Barb and Tim that that made him the outsider for a change. They ended up buying two exclusive preview copies and a re-print of a vintage volume, re-mastered in honor of Batman, detailing the night of the Blackgate riots when Batman was first caught on public cameras. Barb filed that one away for detailed ‘how-much-did-they-fuck-it-up’ analysis once they were back at the Clock Tower, with the boxes of ice cream.

For now, they settled on greasy, gritty fast food from one of the hundred food stalls, trading impressions of ‘disapproving Bruce’ over the unhealthy meals. Naturally, Tim won. He was the kindest soul on earth, but if he wanted to go dark, he went dark enough to come out on the other side of pitch black. The nagging feeling of someone watching them from the shadows was only the icing on the cake, although Dick was happy to chalk that up to a combination of carefully taught paranoia and the great number of times he had already turned down photo requests halfway through the meal. Perhaps showing up in full costume hadn’t been his brightest idea, after all.

The artists’ gallery was next. Tim got himself a perfect black and white drawing of Robin, with blood red highlights for the vest, from one of his favorite artists, and even though it meant half an hour of teetering from one foot onto the other, Dick didn’t mind. Tim was in heaven, clearly enjoying a masterpiece depiction of his own character coming to life thanks to one of his favorite illustrators, and given everything that had happened over the last months, Dick was going to take every single smile he could get and be grateful for it. Once the picture was done, Barb proclaimed that it was her turn and led the way.

Straight into the tattooing aisle.

“Hold my coke, please.” She pushed the can into his hand without looking and headed straight for one of booths at the very end of the hallway.

Dick raised an eyebrow at Tim’s grin. “She’s been planning this for a while now, hasn’t she?”

“Yep.” Somehow, Tim had managed to conceal one of his best cameras – he had six of them – under his jacket. He checked it over now, changing filters and settings with cautious looks at the preview screen and the surrounding light sources until he was finally satisfied. “Kept on saying that if she couldn’t use her legs for anything else anymore, at least she could make them look nice. I told her they already did, but she really wants this. And she’s got a good point about one thing – no matter how big or painful that tattoo is going to be, she’s going to be sitting like a rock.”

The tattoo ended up being a slender garter, circling high on Barb’s right thigh, and placed there by an artist she had been talking to for weeks. No wonder then that she had a print out of the design ready at hand. At first glance, it looked like a typical lace garter, but even though the one-hour session Babs ended up having was barely enough to put in the outline, he could already see where this was going. Every other space between the threads was shaped like a stylized bat.

“I’ll have some golden highlights put in once the shading is complete,” Barbara explained as the tattoo was wrapped up to facilitate the initial healing process. “It’s going to be gorgeous.”

“Batgirl fan girl, huh?” Her tattoo artist winked at her as she put away the needles and ink and cleaned up her work space for the next customer. Barb retrieved her drink from Dick once more before flashing the artist a bright smile.

“I love all the bats, but Batgirl’s always going to be my hero.”

They moved on then, careful to keep the conversation outwardly neutral while trying to pack as many insider jokes as possible into each sentence, but soon any mention of the job was dropped. It felt strange, being involved in a completely mundane afternoon, with completely mundane conversation in a completely mundane environment, for a change, but it wasn’t the bad kind of strange. With a quick smile, Dick headed for the last planned stop on their visit.

The ‘comic cup corner’, as it was labeled in the floor plan handed out at the entrance, had grown significantly since he had last come here and the thought made him happy and sad at the same time. On one hand, it meant he now had more awesomeness to choose from. On the other, he had _too much_ awesomeness to choose from.

“I vote for this one!” Tim reached for a cup from the top of the Batman shelf and turned the printed side towards him right in front of his face. In the picture, an unhealthily pale Batman was crushing an alarm clock reading 8:00am in his fist. “I am the night.” Tim growled in his best impression of Bruce. “I reject this ‘daylight’ you speak off.”

Barb gave a high-pitched laugh in return, then reached for a cup labeled ‘#TopTenReasonsYouShouldHaveKnownWayneWasBatman’.

“This list was classic when it was published online five minutes after the broadcast and it gets better every time I read it.”

Dick took the cup from her carefully and with the honest intention to keep a completely straight face.

He managed to get all the way to 3 before bursting into laughter.

_1) shitloads of money for the toys_

_2) dark, brooding back story_

_3) dat jaw line, bro_

“Oh dear Lord...” Talking through the laughter made his stomach cramp up, but at least he managed to hand the mug back without breaking it. “Sweet baby Jesus, this is perfect! The jaw line... Jesus...” Next to the hash tag mug sat another cup with a fake newspaper print. The title read ‘Breaking News: Bruce Wayne is Batman’. The subtitle read ‘Gotham Doesn’t Care’. Somehow, the sight made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside and he picked the cup up carefully. His voice was barely more than a whisper, certainly not enough for any bystanders to make sense of what he was saying in the crowded hall, but he knew Tim and Barb were listening.

“You know... I’d like to think that‘s true. I’d like to think that, if he was still here, no one in Gotham would hold his actions against him.”

“Well...” Barb shrugged her shoulders. “The GCPD’s fax machine had an ‘unfortunate accident’ when the mayor’s request for an arrest warrant was sent over. I’d think that’s a good start.”

“Yeah...” He turned the mug over slowly in his hand. “I think it is.” With a deep sigh, Dick turned to the sales clerk. “I’m gonna take this one and these two...” He pointed at the cups picked by Tim and Barb before skimming over the other bat-related merchandise. There were now almost as many Robin mugs as Nightwing mugs, plus a smaller selection for Batgirl, and even three prints for Red Hood. He chose the most badass looking designs he could find – Robin perched on a gargoyle like a speck of blood against the pale moon, Nightwing with his escrima sticks crossed in front of him, Batgirl delivering a vicious kick straight to the viewer and Red Hood somehow managing the look absolutely menacing despite being shrouded in shadow with only his hood, one of his guns, and a hint of the red bat on his back visible. He decided on two of each – if only to have a spare stored somewhere in case his apartment ever burned down or anything. The attendant rolled them up in double bubble wrap, stacked them neatly into shoe-sized boxes and then handed the entire thing over to him in a bag that was naturally over-sized and clunky. He’d have to hand them over to Tim and Barb for the ride home. There was no way he was carrying any of this on his motorcycle.

“So...” Barb tapped her right hand on her arm rest, very clearly trying not to pick at the fresh tattoo. “Unless you guys want to see or buy anything else, how about that ice cream? We could watch a movie, maybe play a game and then start working?”

“Sounds good to me.” Tim was quick to agree, but for once, Dick was the one who hesitated. Since he was already here...

“You two go ahead. I have one more thing to take care of.” Thankfully, Tim and Barb did not argue. He waited until they had disappeared into the crowds, then made his way for the wall by the back of the hall.

The plushie stand had also grown since he had last seen it, not just in sheer number of dolls displayed, but also in variety. Robin was catching up to Batman, and while Batgirl plushies remained the minority, there were at least two that were close enough to being acceptable to catch his interest. He picked the smaller one, depicting Batgirl in an almost manga-like style, with huge blue eyes, fiery red hair and the cutest smile on her face. The tiny, adorable cape on her back was only the icing on the cake.

The second choice was harder. Red Hood did not seem to be the most popular choice yet and the selections were not the greatest. He soon realized why when a family of four stepped up next to him.

“Wow! They have Red Hood!”

“I am not buying you that plushie, Joey. Red Hood’s nothing but a gun-toting maniac,” the father replied with a stern look at his eight-year-old boy and somehow the remark instantly set off flares underneath Dick’s skin.

_Hold your tongue, Dick. This is not your kid. Not your business._

“But he is so cool,” the little boy tried to argue once more.

His sister, who looked to be at least six years older, gave a half-interested shrug. “Jonah’s got a point there, dad. And if he’d been around to dust Joker, people would be calling him a hero.”

Her mother glared at her sharply. “We. Are not. Buying you plushies. Of a Gun-Toting. Maniac—“

“Ma’am, would you kindly not call him that?” He wasn’t entirely sure what had finally snapped his self-control – what she said or the way she said it, like he was less than dirt in her eyes – but Dick finally had enough. It took him every ounce of control just to keep his voice low and leveled. “You have no idea who he is and why he does the things he do. Even if you don’t agree with his methods – he is keeping you and your family and millions of honest, decent, innocent people in Gotham safe.”

“Son, you don’t really know what you are talking about, do you?” The father turned around to him quickly, pushing his son over to mommy for the time being, while reaching into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and procuring a perfectly authentic GCPD badge. “You want to talk about keeping this city safe? Look, I know you kids love all those vigilantes. God, I don’t even want to think about how much money you spent on that costume of yours, because it’s pretty good. Nightwing, right?” Dick nodded silently. “But you need to understand: these people operate outside the law, with zero accountability, and that’s a crime. It might make the streets a little cleaner, but it’s still a crime, son.”

Part of him wanted to punch that man. Of course it was technically a crime. But after everything they had done for Gotham, for Blüdhaven... After all the sacrifices they had made... He switched the bag of cups over to his other hand and rolled his shoulders to get rid of the tension starting to build up in them.

That’s when he saw him.

He was little more than a dot of red and gray in the distance behind the family, leaning against the door to the delivery parking lot, but he was there. Dick was sure of it, even if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. He could feel it in his gut.

“Maybe so. But maybe _you_ don’t understand that there are still people behind those masks and whatever else you may think of them – calling someone who puts their own life on the line to save innocent civilians ‘nothing but a gun-toting maniac’ is not being a good cop. It’s being a horrible human being.”

He turned back to the plushie selection at hand. None of the dolls were anywhere as accurate as the Batman, Batgirl, Robin or Nightwing variants, but one of them was sufficiently close. Ironically, it was the only one that did not feature pistols. He held it up and pointed at the empty holsters. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty sure Red Hood would kick ten tons of ass even without the guns.”

He had the store owner wrap both plushies separately, one in black and gold, one in red and silver. One last glance back at the parking lot door confirmed what he had already suspected. Jason was gone again. As the owner handed him back his wrapped dolls and helped him store them in the cup bag, Dick took a deep breath.

In the end, it didn’t really matter. He had had to wait six years for his brother to be returned from the monster that had taken him, just like he had waited six years to get this damn plushie. He could wait a few more weeks or months to hand it over.


End file.
